Page 7 of A Sunwoven Ascent

That had gone terribly. She had no one to blame but herself; she had all but questioned the very core of who he was. Kaldrek was good. Of that, she had no doubt. But her thoughts kept returning to the dormant power beneath his skin, and her curiosity had escaped before sense could rein it in. She would find a way to mend what she had broken. She had to. But first, she would try again with Alaric. She had precious little left to risk.

As they pressed on through the last stretch of the mountain pass, Evelyne noticed Alaric walking at the very center of the Glaciermaw formation. A strange choice, almost as though he wanted as much distance as possible between himself and the Ironwolf pack. Perhaps he truly did need the space to mend.

The trail ahead was merciless, a narrow spine of ice and stone winding through the northern peaks. Every step demanded care; one misplaced boot could send them skidding down jagged, glass-bright slopes. Frozen shards thrust through the crusted snow, and slick sheets of ice gleamed treacherously in the pale light. The cold pressed deep into Evelyne’s bones, though for once the wind had stilled, making the silence around them feel all the sharper.

They kept going, the quiet broken now and then by a warning about the path or a low chuckle meant to keep spirits from wearing thin. Something steady held among them, a quiet sense that they would endure this together. And though the chatter came and went, everyone joined in at one point or another. Everyone except Alaric. That troubled her more than anything. A man who had once been so warm and quick with wit now moved beside them without a word. It felt unnatural, watching someone she knew slip slowly into shadow.

Evelyne slowed until she fell into step beside Alaric. He did not look up, his gaze fixed on the path as though it required every scrap of his attention.

“Alaric,” she said softly.

He did not react.

“Alaric!”

At last, his head turned slightly.

“Are you well?” she asked, carefully crossing a patch of glittering ice.

“Yes.”

Her brows drew together. “Still not sleeping?”

“No.” The answer was barely more than breath, thin and hollow.

Evelyne offered him a prim little smile. “Goodness. Do try not to wear yourself out with all that conversation. Even so, I would wager something is troubling you… though I cannot yet guess what.”

Nothing. Not the slightest twitch of his mouth, not a flicker in his eyes. Only emptiness. She knew then that something was deeply wrong.

She tried again, more gently this time, letting the humor slip away. She would not let silence swallow him whole. “This march has been difficult, but Heidara says we are close to Centaro. Real warmth. Real rest. We are nearly there.”

Still he said nothing. Was he even with her anymore?

Evelyne slipped her hand into his, trying to draw him back to her. “Look at me. I have not abandoned you. We are still walking the same road. But you must hold on. Whatever is haunting you, this is not who you are. When you are ready to speak, I will listen. Until then, do not let it drag you under. Please, Alaric… stay with me.”

For a long moment, he did not move. Then, at last, he gave the faintest nod.

“Good.” She smiled and let his hand slip from hers, moving to fall back into step beside Heidara.

Even so, Alaric’s strange behavior lingered with her, clinging like a shadow she could not shake. She wanted to tell Heidara she agreed, that something in him felt wrong somehow. But she could not have explained it, not even to herself. This was not the Alaric she knew. He seemed… untethered.

Perhaps that should not have surprised her. This journey had been steeped in darkness from the start, with fear and death trailing too close behind. Yes, they had found Cillian. Yes, they had uncovered the truth of the corrupted trade routes. But there had been no comfort in it, no true safety. Only blood, grief, and the long road home stretching before them toward a life that already felt impossibly far away.

At least she had found something within the ruin. Love. A mate. Her wolf. She was no longer confined to a prison of silk gowns and suffocating parlors. She was freer now than she had ever been, and stronger too. But Alaric… What waited for him at journey’s end but a wealthy estate, and a family that would expect him to take up the weight of trade and alliance once more, to slip back into duties he had never chosen for himself?

And then there was magic. How much longer could it remain hidden? The covens must have felt the tremor of what had happened in Nerathar. Charise Hallowell, the witch they had met in Velenshire, had once said they sensed a shift decades ago, when Vaelora first turned to blood magic. Surely they would feel this as well—what Cillian had done, what all of them had done.

Evelyne thought of all she had endured, but Alaric’s burdens were no lighter. He had lost Reuben, his family’s carriage driver; lost any hope of claiming her hand in marriage; and somewhere along the way, lost pieces of himself as well.

And unlike her, unlike Cillian, unlike Kaldrek, he was still only human. No fangs, no claws, no bond to steady him. Only flesh and bone in a world growing colder and crueler by the day.

Her chest tightened at the thought. For the first time, she tried to imagine the road as he saw it, and the ache of it settled deep inside her.

Chapter 5

Hours had passed since Evelyne had last spoken to Kaldrek, and she still could not sense the faintest trace of what he felt. If he had found a way to wall himself off, he was doing it flawlessly. Or perhaps there was nothing left to hide—no more anger, only the clear, steady focus of an alpha. I have a pack to lead. The words still echoed in her mind.

She tugged her wool-lined leathers tighter as they crossed the final valley, moving at a brisk pace between lesser peaks. They had passed the mountain with the snowless crown earlier that morning, yet the eastern grasslands remained out of sight. One range after another still stood between them and the edge of the north.